


Amour du Sol

by Homicidal Whispers (HomicidalWhispers)



Series: Amour de la Terre [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, M/M, Other Side Pairings, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Sadstuck Kind Of, Underage Substance Use, at least as close as you can get to moirallegiance in an AU, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomicidalWhispers/pseuds/Homicidal%20Whispers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In life, there is something that keeps you grounded, something that makes life worth living when you feel like there's nothing left for you in this world. There is something that allows you to shoulder on and suffer your mortal coil.</p><p>When Gamzee has hit rock bottom, this is what he discovers. This is a tale of someone who sees pain far beyond his years, and what it takes to piece him back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The air was heavy with humidity and light sprinkles of rain, altogether unusual weather for Sacramento, California. The dampness was disgusting and the air pressure was overbearing and it made it hard to breath. Each inhalation was a struggle that almost didn’t seem worth the effort it took. It had to be a motherfucking miracle, Gamzee thought, because wasn’t the weather just matching his life perfectly.

His father’s car was in the driveway when he stumbled home from school, the first time he had gone in nearly two weeks. He didn’t see the man as he made his way up the steps to his room and shut the door behind him. The weather was horrible and so was his life and all he wanted to do was forget it all.

Nearly two hours later, his door opened. Gamzee’s father walked in, his high-end politician’s suit reeking of sex and booze. He felt the weight of a stare on his back as he laid face-down on his huge bed in his huge room in his huge house. Slowly, he sat up to face George Henry Makara, likely candidate for Vice President. He imagined what he must be seeing: his fourteen year old son, pupils blown from the cocaine he had snorted an hour ago, juggalo paint slopped on his face, looking like he hadn’t bathed in days because he probably _hadn’t_.

His father was a tall man with a stocky build. Gamzee, at five-foot-seven, was quickly nearing his height. However, where his father was large, he was almost painfully lanky. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a meal consisting of something other than Faygo and marijuana-laced brownies, or fries to placate the munchies.

“How was school, son?” his father asked. Gamzee knew the routine; his father would pretend he was a loving and responsible parent. He, in turn, would pretend like he wasn’t irrevocably fucked up because of his only parent’s continued absences.

“It was all kinds of motherfucking sweetness,” he answered. He saw his father’s mouth tighten slightly and wished that he didn’t care. “How long you staying this time?”

“I’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow. I’m not yet certain when I’ll be able to return.”

Gamzee nodded as he struggled to his feet and left his father to go to the bathroom. He wiped the make-up off and took a shower. It was the first time he’d washed his hair in days. He came out feeling naked and exposed, even as he dressed in the preppy clothes he only wore when his father was home.

His father was waiting impatiently by the door for him when he came downstairs. They drove in his father’s car that cost more than thrice the average family’s annual paycheck, going to a restaurant, a museum, a mall; anywhere that opportunists and paparazzi could snap pictures of the wholesome family to spread all over tomorrow’s tabloids.

Gamzee kept a fake smile on and his mouth clean. This was a motherfucking joke, and he couldn’t bring himself to laugh. He was sure that if he could, it would sound nearly as fake as he felt.

His head ached.  After the third hour, he escaped to a bathroom. It was high class, with a separate room with full-length mirrors on two of the walls, a coat rack and, for some reason, designer mints. When he left, the bathroom smelled like weed. The next three hours were a lot easier to bear.

They returned home after midnight, although it was a Wednesday, and he technically had school the next day. Gamzee was dismissed back to his room. It took him far too long to settle enough to fall into a restless sleep.

The next morning, he presented himself in the kitchen at eight o’clock sharp, as was expected of him. There was breakfast on the table, and a scrap of paper sticking out from underneath the glass of orange juice. He didn’t need to read it; he already knew what it would say, because George Makara never stayed as long as he promised. He ate the food slowly, watching the maids watching him pityingly.

It was delicious. It tasted like chalk.

After he finished his meal, his plate was whisked away and he returned upstairs. He changed out of his sweater vest and slacks into olive cargos and combats. He applied his face paint with a practiced hand and grabbed his book bag. He checked his watch as he left the house. School started in ten minutes and it was a twenty minute walk. It didn’t really matter; he wasn’t going for class anyway.

He spent his first two classes on the school’s roof with a rolled joint in a self-medicated stupor. He was calm to the point of lethargy as he lied on his back to watch the sky. He smiled, because the sky was always bluer like this.

The minutes ticked by in hours. The sound of the bell was a shock; he felt like he’d been on the roof for days. Still, he went downstairs and towards class at his steady lope. The halls were crowded as usual, full of people at their lockers, couples pawing at each other and gossiping cliques of giggling girls. Even so, when the other students caught sight of Gamzee, they shied away, leaving an almost ostentatious path in the middle of the throng. Gamzee kept up his lazy smile, because there was still a fog in his mind.

When he arrived at class, the students stared and whispered openly. The teacher did a double-take at seeing him in class for the second day in a row. The girl sitting beside him and to his left tapped him. When Gamzee turned to her, she flinched, but steeled herself. “There’s a test today,” she said, “on triangular postulates. Ms. Haslov mentioned it yesterday, but I didn’t think you heard.”

“Didn’t have not a motherfucking clue,” Gamzee assured her. “Thanks, sister.”

The girl offered a small smile and returned to her notebook for last-minute studying. He looked at his own notebook, useless because of how infrequently he went to class. He didn’t really care anyway.

The teacher handed out the test papers. ”See me after class,” she muttered as she gave a sheet to Gamzee. He nodded languidly in reply and picked up his pencil. He hadn’t been in class for the majority of the subject, but at least there had been a review yesterday. He wasn’t as bad off as he could be. When the bell rang and signified the end of the test, he still had another two questions left, but he handed in the sheet without protest and went to wait for Ms. Haslov by her desk.

After she collected all of them, Gamzee watched her extract his own test as she sat. “Why have you been absent?” she asked and began marking it.

“Ain’t been feeling too motherfucking well,” he answered. He could tell she didn’t believe him. It was the truth.

“And why are you here today?”

He shrugged. “Needed a hit and I don’t have anything left at home.”

Her eyes softened slightly as she handed him back his paper. Two slash marks went through the questions left unanswered. An eighty-seven was written and circled in red ink.

“You’re a smart boy, Gamzee,” she said imploringly. “You could do so well if you tried harder. I don’t understand.” He shrugged. There was no point in explaining; he’d never been the best at stringing words together into something comprehensible. Even if he could explain, she wouldn’t believe him. No one ever did.

“You’re such a fortunate child; you’re intelligent and charming. Even though your mother has passed, Senator Makara is such a wonderful parent. I don’t see what went wrong.”

Abruptly, Gamzee straightened, shoving the test into his nearly empty bag haphazardly. “Can I be leaving now?” Ms. Haslov patted his hand before writing him a late pass to his next class. He went home instead.

When he opened the door, none of the housecleaners were surprised to see him; they had all long since grown used to his self-destructive habits. He pulled one of them aside. “Listen,” he told her, “you can just all be taking the day off. In fact, have the whole motherfucking week.”

She was obviously curious, but she didn’t ask questions. Instead, she nodded respectfully and turned away. Gamzee watched her gather the cleaning staff and leave before he went upstairs. At the top of the staircase he paused. To the left were his room and the bathroom. In the other direction were his father’s room and office. After a pause, he went to the right.

The bedroom door was locked, as always. The office, however, gave beneath his fingers. It was immaculate, whether due to the maids or to disuse was debatable. Still, this was the one part of the house where Gamzee could see that George Makara lived there. The hook beside the door had a jacket and tie hanging from it. There was a stack of papers on the desk, written in legalese and kept in place with a stapler. His father’s migraine medication laid on its side, rolling gently in either direction.

He looked around briefly, rummaging through drawers and files. Despite knowing very little about politics, Gamzee knew that some of what he sees can ruin his father’s status and career. There was enough corruption and extortion concealed among those unassuming papers to make lawyers and politicians, professional pathological liars and kleptomaniacs, weep with ill-begotten pride.

Disgusted, he stood. He considered putting everything away and decided against it. His father wouldn’t care either way. He left the room, shoving his father’s medication into his pocket as he went. He drew the door shut behind him with a gentle click and headed for the bathroom.

His bathroom was well-lit with hybridized light bulbs. Mirrors lined the wall above the sink, each one concealing a cupboard behind it. He rummaged through all of these. When he was done, he had several little bottles of pills, for flu and cold, for high blood pressure, for nausea, for migraines.

He emptied them all onto the floor and then kneeled to pick them up. Each tiny white pill he touched, he chewed and swallowed. Two, four, seven, eight, twelve – he lost track quickly. His sense of time was shot; he could have been there for minutes or hours or days. Sweat poured off of him in dripping rivulets. The world spun around him in dizzying waves. Colors blended into each other and he heard splintered strands of maniacal laughter and broken conversation. He felt nauseous. The world wouldn’t stop turning, but he was staying still.

He heard laughter and conversation.

He was delirious.

_get me the fuck out._

_GET ME THE FUCK OUT._


	2. Chapter Two

When Gamzee woke up, it was nothing like what he had seen on television.

There were no flashing lights, no paramedics rushing him to the hospital. There were no tubes shoved in his nostril to pump the pills out of his system, nor down his throat to administer activated charcoal. His father wasn’t by his metaphorical bedside, crying and promising to be there for him, to be a better parent.

Gamzee woke as alone as he had been when he lost consciousness and this fact alone made him contemplate trying suicide again. He knew there were other methods with a greater chance of fatality. He was still in the bathroom; he would not be hard pressed to find something sharp with which he could slit his wrists until he bled out, or to find something sturdy enough to use to hang himself from the bathtub’s railing with. There were some pills left over on the floor that he could chase down with vodka from his father’s cabinet.

He felt like crying when he felt the trail of dried vomit down the side of his mouth. It was only by blind, dumb luck that he was still alive. By some stroke of fate, when he had fallen unconscious, he had hit his head on the edge of the tub on his way down. One arm was slung over the edge and his head propped against the side. The elevated position was the only thing preventing him from dying of asphyxiation when he had thrown up involuntarily.

Instead, he stood up unsteadily and wiped vomit from his chin with his sleeve. His phone, surprisingly not dead when he fished it out of his pocket, told him that it was nearly three days later than when he had downed those pills like they were ecstasy tablets and he was a hot single in the area looking for a good time. The world still threatened to leave him behind and the floor swayed precariously beneath his feet. His head pounded and there was the vile taste of stomach acid and bile in his mouth.

Piss stained the front of his pants, a friendly reminder that although mentally, he no longer was living, his body still functioned. As he ran water over his face, he briefly considered the merits of taking a shower and almost immediately decided not to. He knew he looked like shit now, and probably smelled like it to. So what? If his exterior looked like shit, it only matched his interior and his interior, rotted away as it was with drugs and reckless carelessness, matched his life. He pulled on a fresh pair, put a new shirt on to match it and hoped that it concealed nothing.

For lack of anything better to do, Gamzee went downstairs. His feet echoed on the wooden linoleum as he descended; each step ricocheted loudly. He heard a clock ticking in a room above his head. It was quiet enough that he thought he could hear himself breathing. It was a deceptive sort of silence.

Aimlessly, he wandered from room to room. He had never before realized how comforting the presence of another person was; even if they weren’t in sight, his body instinctively realized someone else was there. Soft sounds of habitation that usually went unacknowledged; the gentle stream of water while someone washes the dishes, humming as someone sweeps the floor. Without the cleaning staff, he was free to realize how alone he was. Gamzee hadn’t eaten in days, but somehow, his appetite still failed him.

A half formed idea appeared in the forefront his mind. Nearly half an hour of searching passed before he unearthed his wallet and his jacket. He pulled on his boots and stepped out the door. The sun felt blinding, but he shouldered on and began walking.

The curious thing about wanting to die was that he stopped actively trying to live. Common, everyday things designed to ensure survival became useless to him. He saw no point in looking both ways before crossing the streets or waiting at stop lights. More than once, a car slammed on the breaks and honked at him, the driver shoving their head out of the window to curse at him. He couldn’t stop wishing that they had been the few seconds slower.

It was a long walk to the bus terminal, but Gamzee had nothing to do and time to spare. It was a school day, but no one looked his way as he went to the concession stand. The cashier, a slack-jawed teen popped bubblegum in his face.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

He perused the time-table, allowing places and times to wash across him until his eyes alighted upon one and he allowed a smile to stretch across his face. “A ticket to Vegas would be bitchtits right now, brother,” Gamzee answered.

“You’re in luck,” the cashier answered in a voice as bland as his face as he tapped at the register, “the next bus leaves in only twenty-five minutes. Will that be a round-trip or a one way ticket?”

 “One way.”

“Your total will be fifty-five.” Gamzee swiped his father’s World Elite credit card and forged his signature, receiving a ticket in return. Grasping it in sticky fingers, he found his departure sight and waited. Here, he got odd looks; not because of his age, but because of his lack of baggage. His fingers twitched and he wished that instead of his ticket, a joint was clenched between them.

It was a six hour long ride and, more than anything, it was long. He had nothing to do. All around him, people passed the time with music or studying or books, the odd person with their laptop doing nothing but playing solitaire. The uppity, do-gooder folk shied away from him with one look at him; the seats around him in every direction were empty. No one spoke to him, no one even looked at him. He grew antsier and edgier with each passing minute. Every one of them probably sent a pretty little check to Africa to feed the starving children each month and assured themselves they were good people, even as they ruthlessly tore money out of others’ hands with the lie called the stock market and ruined lives with a single word.

The bus let off in the heart of Las Vegas. It was not nearly as much of a city as Sacramento was. People did not rush in all directions and the cars moved slowly. Tourists were almost comically easy to pick out, with their cameras snapping enthusiastically in every direction and fingers pointing out from behind maps. Although Gamzee had never been there before, he blended in, the way all city people instinctively could in an unfamiliar area.

Gamzee picked a direction and started walking. The sun was up in all its midafternoon glory, beating down on his face. The sidewalk pounded beneath his feet as he walked further and further. Minutes trickled by as he observed the shifting scenery. Sprawling pristine complexes slowly melted into more modest homes and not long after that, he found himself in the red-light district. It had been remarkably easy to find. He followed the discernible trail or adulterous old men; the street gleamed with removed rings and shedding cash.

He had been walking for nearly two hours. Even in mid-afternoon, it was active. With each street he passed, he saw more illegal tattoo parlors and more seedy, hole-in-the wall bars. In the distance, a casino loomed over the other buildings, its opulence fairly radiating from its structure. Across the street, a man rooted through a dumpster.

Someone beckoned him over and he went. The lady looked him up and down and smiled with red-glossed lips. “You looking for a good time?” she asked in a breathy, high-pitched trill.

“Nah, sister,” he answered easily. “Not today.”

She huffed and lit a cigarette, losing interest immediately. “Probably couldn’t afford me anyway. You’re just a kid.”

He shrugged and tucked a twenty bill down the front of her skirt. “You couldn’t have been worth any more than that, am I right, motherfucker?” He patted her condescendingly before slouching away.

He was turned away from two gambling dens and three bars before he attempted to find somewhere to stay for the night. It wasn’t too hard to locate some; several of the casinos doubled as hotels and crappy motels were strategically placed on almost every other street. He picked one at random at entered.

For the first time, he realized that maybe he hadn’t thought this through. The person behind the counter stared him down as he approached and he became ridiculously conscious of himself. It wasn’t impossible for him to be mistaken as older than he actually was. He was tall for his age and he lacked the roundness boys his age usually had. Regardless, most people didn’t make the mistake.

Gamzee knew what would happen before he even reached the desk. The man looked down on him with his hooked nose and sneered nastily. “What does a fucker gotta do to get a room in this sweet ass place?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, sir, minors are not allowed to rent rooms without a guardian’s consent,” he said with no small amount of glee. “Unless you have some sort of proof of your age, I’m afraid I will not be able to help you.” Gamzee knew there was nothing in his wallet except some haphazardly folded bills, his father’s card and the useless ticket nub from the ride to Vegas. He didn’t even have his high school ID with him. As much as he hated invoking his father’s name to get what he wanted, he knew that this man would quickly sing a different tune if he knew who he was.

“Look, brother,” Gamzee said, “I don’t want no motherfucking issues.”

The concierge spoke over him. “Sir, if you refuse to exit the premises, I’ll be obliged to call security.” Gamzee cussed and stayed still for a tense moment, but stepped back outside. The weather was cooling rapidly along the setting sun and his ratty jacket did virtually nothing to warm him. He was in the middle of an unfamiliar city with no place to stay for the night and not nearly enough energy to walk back to the bus terminal. His body was doing its best to remind him that he had been unconscious for several days, with his stomach’s rumbling quickly approaching thunderous.

A boy around his age walked past him with the hurried strides of someone late for a deadline. “Know where a brother can get some motherfucking grub around here?” Gamzee called to him. The boy hesitated but turned to him. His eyes scanned Gamzee’s face before settling somewhere around his shoulder.

“There is a McDonald’s about three blocks away, if you want that,” he said. His sentence started slowly and then came in a rush of mumbled words. He spoke with a slight accent. “I could possibly show you the way.”

“That would be perfect, motherfucker.”

“My name is actually, uh, Tavros, not that,” he said and Gamzee laughed properly, in a way he hadn’t laughed for months.

“I’m Gamzee. Lead on then, Tavbro.” Tavros nodded and walked in the direction he had originally been traveling, glancing back over his shoulder every so often to make sure he was following.

“Where are you, uh, from, Gamzee? That is, I do not think that you are from here,” he said.

“California,” he answered. “But a brother’s gotta wonder how he’ll get back. Gotta wonder where he’ll be tonight, too.”

Tavros paused. “Do you not have somewhere to stay? If that is the case, you can maybe stay at my house, for the night.”

Gamzee grinned. “That would be a fucking miracle, brother.”

He nodded slowly. “We will go there instead, then.” He crossed the street and Gamzee followed behind him.

 He looked both directions before he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, guys. Help, guys. I have no idea what Las Vegas is like. I just pretty much google mapped some shit, and used some general info I have to make up the rest. I’m sorry.
> 
> Jesus, this chapter is shit. I hate it. Why am I posting this?


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have literally no excuse why this is so late. I mean, sure, I had some tests and finals and shit, but still. I’m so sorry. Posting unedited because fuck. Fuck is why.
> 
> The first two chapters wrote themselves. This one clawed itself, screaming its throat hoarse and bleeding from pus-filled lacerations, from the depths of my mind. Jesus. I apologize in advance for choppiness, awkward transitions, rushedness and the overall shittiness of this.

When Gamzee woke up, the first thing he saw were stars. Never the most alert upon first waking, he for one moment wondered why he had fallen asleep outside. As he slowly woke up, however, he really that he was not, in fact, outdoors. Rather, the stars were pasted on the ceiling. They were the tacky plastic ones, the ones that glowed a greenish-yellow in the dark.

The longer he stared, the more he noticed. First, the cheap stars were in varying sizes and shapes and then that they were arranged into constellations; the North Star was in the center of the room with the Little Dipper arranged meticulously around it and the Big Dipper close by. Gamzee spotted Orion and Andromeda, his own Capircornus in the corner above a dresser and a strange pattern that he didn’t recognize directly above the bed he slept on.

Then he realized that the bed he was on was not his own; too small, too lumpy. The indent in the mattress did not fit the shape of his body the way his own did. As a corollary to this newest observation, he realized that he was not in his room and therefore, not in his own house.

Stretching, he sat up and looked around properly. The room he was in was tidy, unlike his own; save for the odd card strewn on the floor or piece of clothing out of place.  There was a small white plush placed lovingly on the bedside table, shaped like a bull with wings, in remarkable condition considering how old it clearly was. When he turned his head in the other direction, he could see a desktop computer resting on a wooden desk.

He stood and left the room, following the sound of voices and soon arriving at the kitchen. The boy he met yesterday, Tavros, and a lady he assumed must be his mother were conversing in rapid Spanish. Gamzee had taken French in school and knew next to nothing of the language, but it was fairly easy to tell what they were discussing. His mother’s furrowed brows and closed expression and Tavros’ pleading tone made it all too easy; he, despite Tavros’ protests, was not welcome here.

She caught sight of him over Tavros’ shoulder and stopped speaking abruptly, her lips pursing into a thin line and her arms crossing under her generous chest. Tavros spun around, his expression smoothing into a smile. “Podemos hablar más tarde,” he said without looking at her and she nodded tightly, clearly displeased.

“Good morning,” Tavros said to him. “I did not think that I should wake you up, since you seemed pretty, exhausted.”

“Ain’t no motherfucking problem, brother,” Gamzee reassured. “That your room I woke up in?”

“Yes,” he answered and stopped in front of a door. “This is the, uh, bathroom. There is a spare toothbrush and towels in the closet next to the sink.”

“Thanks bro,” Gamzee said. Once inside, he stripped without another though and went into the shower, turning on the hot water as high as it would go. Steam misted up, leaving bright red splotches on his pale skin. The shower ended too soon, far too soon, but he stepped out nevertheless. He found the cupboard Tavros was telling him about and wrapped a towel around his waist and snagged a toothbrush.

Their sink was positioned directly under a mirror, and with one glance at his reflection, he could see why Tavros’ mom recoiled at the sight of him. Days old greasepaint was caked on his face, smudged, smeared and now running from the shower. There were still traces of bile at his chin and his eyes were bloodshot and rheumy; he could only imagine how much worse he had to have looked before the shower.

He grimaced at the image he presented and began washing it all off. It was slow going, as all he had to work with was soap and water, but eventually, he got it all off. He brushed his teeth and a new person stared back at him in the mirror.

Gamzee had often described as attractive by others and he had had his fair share of admirers. He had never seen nor cared what others saw in him. His hair, currently drying into his usual flyaway curls, was a shade of brown that was almost black, his eyes burnt coal gray. High cheekbones, straight nose, full lips – the best genes from both his father and mother. It was only to be expected; as his father’s only legitimate child (and therefore the only one recognized), it was essentially his duty to look the part.

He scowled as his thoughts turned dark and picked up his clothes. Forgoing his underwear, he put back on his jeans and shirt. It was a little sweaty, but he deemed himself acceptable and returned to the kitchen.

“Just in time,” Tavros said as his saw him enter. “There is, breakfast if you would like some.”

“That would be a motherfucking miracle,” he replied. “Haven’t eaten in days.”

Tavros’ mother looked at him for the first time since he had walked in the room, her eyes softening as she looked at him with a motherly affection he couldn’t recognize. She put a plate in front of the two boys, dishing a liberal helping of eggs and sausages and potatoes onto each and then bustling towards the sink.

“You do not have any, allergies I hope?” Tavros asked him even as he started shoveling food into his mouth with all the grace and class of a wannabe whore gagging down their first dick. He could almost imagine metaphorical semen splashing in his face and irritating his eyes.

He ignored the question and instead says, “Does your mom speak English?”

"Yes," he answered. "My father is still learning but, you will probably not see him very much."

"Thanks for the food, Mrs..."

"Nitram," Tavros supplied helpfully. This was the moment when most parents pasted on plastic smiles and said "No need for formality, dear, call me Sally." It did not escape his notice that Mrs. Nitram did no such thing.

"It was amazing, Mrs. Nitram," he concluded lamely. She nodded stiffly, as he had come to expect from her and escaped into the next room.

Gamzee looked at her retreating back contemplatively before he picked up his emptied plate with purpose. He went into the kitchen and dropped it into the sink before turning to face her; she stood, watching him warily.

"I don't blame you for not liking me," he said to her, noting that she neither confirmed nor denied the accusation. Her honey brown eyes stared into him, giving away nothing about how she was feeling. "You probably never will, and shit, there’s nothing I can do about that. But I intend to be Tavros' friend for a fucking long time and it'll be easier with you on my side instead of breathing down my neck."

"I am not on your side, I never will be," she said, speaking directly to him for the first time. Her accent was stronger than he son's; she spoke with more confidence than he did, but paused to search for words more than he did. "I am on my son's side, and he likes you, so I will tolerate you." She ripped a sheet from a notepad stuck to the fridge brusquely and scribbled on it

 "Our address and my number,” she said. He took it and shoved it in his pocket without reading it as she turned back to the stove. Knowing that he had been dismissed, he returned to the dining room. Tavros looked up at him curiously but did not ask questions. Following his lead, Gamzee did not supply any answers. He leaned behind Tavros’ chair as he finished eating himself, ruffling the boy’s brown hair playfully.

“You know how a fucker could get back to the bus terminal?” Gamzee asked. “This cunt needs to get home eventually and he ain’t up for walking them miles again.”

Tavros nodded thoughtfully. “You could get there on the RTC. I can take you, if you would prefer that.”

“Sounds good, motherfucker,” he said, despite not knowing what that was. It didn’t matter to him; he made it his business not to ask too many questions and just take the miracles life sent his way. Tavros escaped into the kitchen to put away his dirty plates before returning to his room with Gamzee in tow. He generously found a bag that Gamzee could use to carry all that he had brought with him, which admittedly wasn’t much. He averted his eyes in embarrassment when Gamzee dumped his boxers in shamelessly.

Tavros went to the desk and rummaged through its drawers. While Tavros was distracted, he found a purple magic marker and some paper; he scrawled his trollian handle on it and his cell for good measure, hoping that he hadn’t actually needed whatever was written on the reverse side of the sheet. He didn’t notice as he straightened up, shoving bills into his pocket.

He called something to his mother before leading Gamzee out of their small house. It wasn’t too long of a walk to the nearest bus station, made even better by having company. Gamzee insisted on paying for the tickets, calling it his room and board. Tavros was obviously reluctant to let him do so, but not assertive enough to argue the topic, instead settling with a pout that he couldn’t help but find adorable.

Tavros dutifully accompanied him to the bus terminal and even waited for Gamzee’s bus to arrive. They parted with an anticlimactic goodbye; he looked so dejected outside of the bus’ window, waving sadly because he thought that they would never hear from each other again. It was enough to make him feel bad, but he contented himself with thinking about what his expression would be like when he found the note.

The ride back to California was nowhere near as horrible as the one leaving. For one thing, without his face paint, he looked every bit the respectable American citizen. The businesspeople and the elderly paid him no attention. He caught a couple of girls giggling and making eyes at him from three rows away, which went ignored.  They approached him when the drive ended, one hanging back while the other one stepped forward confidently. Her face was done up with too much makeup and she wore high-waist shirts, a Nirvana tee and Toms. She looked like the satanic offspring of a panda and a hipster.

She demurred and said pretty words that he didn’t care to listen to as he contemplated what would be the best way to handle the situation. “So I was thinking we could hang out some time?” she concluded, blinking in a way she probably thought was cute but actually made her look like she had a particularly violent twitch.

“Sure,” he agreed.

“Really?” she squealed and he nodded pleasantly.

“Yeah. I been looking for a slut bitch to fuck me properly. What,” Gamzee added at the look on her face, “you gonna tell me you a virgin? I can do that. I bet you’d have a tight little pussy, wouldn’t you? I could train you up right, you’ll be riding my dick like a pro before long. Your friend can join too.”

He turned and went the other direction, not waiting to see her reaction. He stopped at the first store he found and paid for a days old magazine. He and his father were on the cover, photoshopped to all hell and back, to the point that they actually look happy to be in each other’s presence. The cashier gave him a long look while he rang up the purchase that Gamzee responded to with a flat glare. It could not have be the worst the man has seen in his days here, because he shrugged and made no comment.

Gamzee kept up a light jog on the way back to his home. He went straight to his father’s office, noting as he went that the cleaning staff was back. He retrieved an envelope and a stamp, as well as his father’s checkbook and filled it in with the first figure that came to mind. After, he stapled the check to the front page of the tabloid. He inscribed it to Mrs. Nitram (Tavros’ Mom) and took care to write his full name in the return address.

He gave it to the first cleaning lady he saw and asked her to send it to the nearest post office before shutting himself in his room. He pulled his computer into his lap and logged into Trollian. Immediately, a message popped up.

**\-- You have a new request from adiosToreador [AG] \-- **

Gamzee grinned to himself and hit accept.


End file.
